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"I am never moving again," one of them mutters. It doesn't matter who said it, not really, because they both mean it.

She feels like she's floating, adrift in a sea of endorphins and serotonin and all the other wonderful hormones that being around Clint induces in her. He's like a persistent itch, the sight of him, the scent of him, the way he tastes, and any time she steps foot near him, his proximity overrides all of her good intentions. God, he makes her feel like a randy teenager, except that she never was anything of the sort and doesn't really have any basis for comparison, but she thinks this must be the way they feel.

Though, admittedly, she would be shocked if any of them ever felt quite like this. He's all lean muscle and enthusiasm, and she's never met at a man quite as flexible in her life nor one that uses it to such delightful purpose. And mother of god, that tongue …

She knows she's being maudlin, but really, she doesn't give a shit. She knows that he finds her just as intoxicating as she does him, and it's like a feedback loop, the way the bliss rolls back and forth between them as their hands idly cross each others' skin. She wants to stay here forever.

Right now, he's playing with the hair that clings in the sweat on the back of her neck right now, and it's sending delicious shivers up and down her spine, little aftershocks that ripple through her and keep her from going idly.

Before he gets any bright ideas, she says, "I can't feel my legs." Her voice comes out funny (and not a little raw), muffled as it is by the pillow she's planted her face into.

He chuckles, runs his arm down her back and flexes it around her. "Sounds like a personal problem."

Without lifting her face, she slaps at him. "Your fault, asshole."

"Didn't hear you complaining at the time."

She's blushing into her pillow now, feeling all warm and kind of … well, fuzzy is the word that comes to mind, loathe as she is to admit it. Stupid hormones. Stupid Clint.

He's not the sort to leave anything alone, and he pokes her. "Is that a blush, Agent Romanoff?"

She turns her head at last. "Beard burn," she deadpans.

He rolls his eyes theatrically, pulls her closer until they're laying chest to chest. He leans down, murmuring, "I'll show you beard burn," and things are just starting to get interesting when the phone rings.

She groans (not the good kind) against his lips. "Is that yours or mine?" she asks, frowning and drawing back from him.

He falls to his back and reaches for the end table where their identical SHIELD phones lie. "Does it matter?"

He's right, it doesn't matter, not at all, because at this hour it's either Rogers or SHIELD and if they're calling for one of them, they probably want the other.

"Barton," Clint says, all business. His eyes dart back and forth between Natasha as he talks, and it's quiet enough that she can hear most of the other side of the conversation, or at least enough to know that it's their latest handler on the other end.

Clint nods along as he speaks, then hangs up and tosses the phone back to its resting place. He settles back next to her with a sigh.

"What is it?" she asks, even though she heard their marching orders.

He rubs a hand over his eyes. "Recon in east Asia. My flight leaves at 0630."

"Your flight?" she asks, genuinely curious. It's not uncommon for them to be split up, especially not for something as simple as recon.

He shrugs, but there's something more in his eyes, something hesitant building there.

"What is it?" she prods, even though she kind of already knows what this was about. Sure, it was par for the course for them to be split up, but it also had been happening a lot lately.

He shakes his head, and she can see him debating whether or not to even speak. She can pinpoint the moment when he recognizes that she's going to get it out of him one way or the other.

"It's this pissing contest," he relents, not adding the part that goes between SHIELD and us, but she knows it's there anyway. "I wish they could just decide what to do with us."

She rolls over and rests her chin on his chest. "You mean about us," she says.

He nods.

Their relationship (and complete disregard for frat regs) had always been something of an open secret, something no one was willing to question because whatever helped the two of them perform up to spec was good enough for Fury and therefore ignored. It didn't hurt that the two of them were quiet about it either. As long as they didn't fuck on the table in the middle of a briefing, well, no one was going to bother them.

But then New York happened and Loki happened and what was once quietly ignored was no longer, certainly not by the Security Council, and maybe she should have been a little less obvious in her intent to get her partner back, but fuck that noise. She needed him back, needs him by her side, just fucking needs him, and as scary as that thought is, the alternative is worse.

She nuzzles him, trying to reclaim the lovely sensation they'd shared only a few minutes ago, but feeling it all dissipate.

"We could just quit, you know," she says, even though she knows better. They have enough money between the two of them that they could tell SHIELD to fuck off and spend the rest of their lives sipping margaritas on a beach somewhere tropical, but that wouldn't be satisfying, wouldn't do a damn thing for either one of their ledgers, and that's really the crux of the problem. To make up for the kind of shit they've done, they have to keep doing it, and isn't that a big fucking conundrum?

He knows all of this, knows it without her saying any of it, and that's precisely why she assembled a team of superheroes to get his sorry ass back. His arm tightens around her and she feels him press his lips to the crown of her head.

"I really love you, you know that?" he says instead of any of a host of other things he could point out right now, and maybe that's enough for the moment because the blissed out feeling from earlier is starting to return and if he wants to ignore the elephant in the room for just a little longer she can't really blame him.

She glances at the digital readout on the clock. It's just past midnight, which means he should probably grab some sleep. But then, well, they're both perfectly capable of surviving on little to no sleep for a few days, and besides, he'll have the flight over.

So she straddles him, presses her hands over his heart and her open mouth to his, and he's warm and solid and blessedly hard underneath her, and she's willing to forget about a lot of things right now.

She moves gently on top of him, and they reach completion together, rocking and clutching and sighing, and they've reclaimed their slice of bliss for another few hours.

The night is still.

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